The MarySue Humane Society
by Soul of Frodo
Summary: The PPC is wonderful, but there are so many Sues and so few agents! A twist on PPC/OFUM, with many LotR character studies and much silliness.


I'm not trying to steal Miss Cam's idea, and I certainly don't want to get in the PPC's way. I'm just having my own bit of fun in the LotR fandom. Anyone who takes offence can give it back immediately after reviewing.

Disclaimer: I don't own LotR or anything related to it. "It's just a bit of fun!" I own Tiny, Saf, and Tuilin; Krys is an old 'friend' of mine. I'll gladly email the MST of Krys' "exploits" to anyone who asks (the fanfic is long-gone).

Shameless Self-Advertisement: Will someone **please** read my pathetic attempt at original fiction? I've worked on it so hard and for so long, and I'm finally pulling the story together... **whines for a few minutes** ...and I want a pony.

Okay, enough. Let the games begin. ~SoF

***

Chapter 1

"Are you all right, Your Highness?"

Unable to generate a reaction, the agent sat back on her heels and bit her lip until it bled. Nothing like pain to get your brain going.

"Your Highness?" she began again. "_Caur nîn? __Hîr Ellon?" ['My prince? Lord Elf?']_

At last, the elf opened his eyes. To her relief, the agent saw that his hair was slowly returning from bleach-blond to its normal golden hue.

"_Ai, __Laeglass uin Calentaur," she said warmly. "__Alcaeleb?" ['Ah, Greenleaf of the Greenwood. Not ill?' She speaks crummy Sindarin.]_

With an incredible backwards leap, the elf propelled himself into the wall behind him, from whence he regarded the agent warily.

"_Glamog!" he hissed. [Something like 'noisy orc.']_

"Oh, _that's nice," the agent remarked, slipping back into the common tongue. "I'm just trying to __help!"_

The Elven-prince looked anything but reassured. Sighing, the agent tried again.

"Your Highness, I am Tinusell i Tharn." [Probably 'Sparky the Sapless.' I told you her Sindarin was awful.] "I have been sent by _brennil nîn Saf the Minstrel." ['My lady.' Maybe.]_

"Lady _what?"_

"Saf. That's what we call her around Amon Yána." [Either 'Holy Hill' or 'Cheez Whiz.'] "You'll meet her soon. Come, _caur nîn," she wheedled, "I am no Orc, nor a Mary-Sue, nor even a mismatched sock!"_

Legolas (for so it was, if you haven't guessed) was, by this point, thoroughly confused.

"What do you wish?" he asked uncertainly.

"Oh, _aníron tyë," answered the agent in a glorious blaze of mixed Elvish. [Your call.] "Come with me, please."_

"Where are you going?"

"To Amon Yána, of course. Saf decided you needed therapy, so you're coming, too."

Thus assured – or not – Legolas followed the agent through a narrow doorway, keeping one hand on the hilt of his long knife.

When he looked back into the room, he found it had already imploded for lack of description.

***

"Ah, here we are: the observation room."

Legolas looked around wonderingly. This room had definite shape, and had paneling of silver-white wood. Set in one wall was a large window, currently obscured by a dark muslin curtain.

"Have a seat," offered the agent, indicating the tiled floor. Though he marveled at the colorless tiles (which were essentially invisible, though the room below was darkened), Legolas obeyed her.

"Pardon me," he said courteously, though still toying with his knife, "but I cannot seem to recall your name."

"Just call me Tiny. They all do." The agent looked down her freckled nose at the Elf-prince. "Now, _caur nîn, I must ask you a few questions."_

"...Yes?"

"First..." Tiny grimaced. "Do you remember where you were before I found you?"

Legolas pondered.

"I was in a forest," he recalled. "A forest of _mallorn-trees, but not Lórien." He shook his head. "Perhaps I only dreamed of the forest. I remember many strange dreams."_

Tiny smiled pityingly.

"Not quite, honey." She reached out over to the window. Brushing aside the lower edge of the curtain, she revealed several slender cords, one of which she yanked without further ceremony. The dark cloth slid noiselessly to one side. "This is the Mary-Sue storeroom."

If Legolas had as much modern knowledge as most people credit to him, he would have thought that the setup outside the window was a huge science-fiction ripoff, and a lousy one at that. However, the Elf-prince had no such knowledge, so he only marveled at the rows of young women, each suspended in a large cylinder of glass. There were Men, Elves, hobbits, and even a few Dwarves. His eyes drifted from one lovely creature to another.

His gaze lingered on one beautiful Elf-maid in the second row of tanks.

Her hair tumbled in dark waves down her back, and her azure eyes shone silver, as with unshed tears. Her head was bowed pensively, and her hands were clasped demurely at her slim waist. She was gracefully built, slender as a willow-withe [we don't know what that is, but we're only the commentator], young and growing in the flower of eternal youth.

As he watched, the girl raised her head. Their eyes met.

_Tuilin?!_

Legolas stepped back, blinking in surprise. He _knew that strange maiden. Memories of Moria...a childish song...a chaste kiss on his brow..._

Another Elf looked at him – a redhead with her smooth white neck exposed by an off-shoulder top. She smiled in undisguised recognition.

_Krys!_

His mind reeled. He remembered a sin – many sins – that he and that woman had committed against each other; yet he also recalled his frequent reference to her as 'Maiden.' Had they truly erred so grievously?

Then he saw that her hands rested on a slight bulge in her belly.

In horror, he looked wildly from tank to tank, realizing that he knew many of them. Fair Elves, exotic humans, and some whose lineage was forgotten or unknown – all claiming him as their own through the bond of their transgressions.

With a frantic sob, Legolas Greenleaf fell to his knees. He felt a gentle touch at his shoulder; crying out some vague Elvish curse, he sprang aside.

"Easy, _easy, Legolas!" soothed Tiny. "The Lego-Lusters can't get you now. You'll be all right."_

"Ai, _Elbereth," moaned the Elf-prince, shielding his face. "Ai, __guruth, umwen, hesk harthad!" ['Death, evil-maiden, dead hope!' We __really hope you know who Elbereth is.]_

"They can't get you here, Legolas. You'll be safe at Amon Yána."

Slowly, will great effort of will, Legolas relaxed. After all, Tiny was hardly a Mary-Sue; she had the face of a twelve-year-old (freckles and all) with mousy-brown hair and pleasantly nondescript gray eyes. He was in no danger from this little one.

"Do you subject all in the Fellowship to this..." He was unable to find a euphuism. "...torture?"

"Most," admitted Tiny. "Except for Frodo." Seizing another cord, she opened the curtain at a different angle. "You can see for yourself."

To Legolas's astonishment, the window now showed a ground-level view of a beautiful garden. He saw Samwise Gamgee – dear little Sam – tending the luscious grapevines that draped themselves luxuriantly over the crumbling brick wall. The gardener looked away from the vines; for a moment, Legolas thought that he had seen them; but no, the hobbit's eyes drifted over to a mossy stone seat by the garden path, where another hobbit lay asleep.

Legolas caught his breath. The sleeping hobbit was Frodo, but not the Frodo of the kindly post-bellum days; the former Ring-bearer was emaciated beyond belief, and paler than even the sunlight that covered him like an ivory cloak. Even in sleep, pain was etched on his fair, almost Elven face.

"He hasn't been well," said Tiny by way of explanation, her voice low. "He ought to be in Valinor by now, but Saf wants to keep him here until she's sure no hobbit-Sues will try to..._ violate him." She shuddered. "After you, he's the Most Popular Lust Object."_

Legolas nodded sympathetically.

"Is he very ill?" he queried. "Or is it sorrow alone that torments him?"

"We don't know. Maybe both."

"How does he bear it? Have you no healers?"

"We have Sam," replied Tiny simply. "Without Sam, Frodo could never survive."

She consulted her watch – a curious timepiece, to the Elf's eyes. [Duh.]

"Almost noon," she announced. "She'll be coming any minute now."

"Who?" asked Legolas, kindly refraining from adding that he could tell the time by the sunshine in the garden.

"Lady Saf."

As if on cue, the keen ears of the Elf caught the sound of footsteps on the path, though the noise was muffled by the glass windowpanes.

"Here she is!" exclaimed Tiny.

The woman traipsing down the path was tall, as humans go, but almost hobbitlike in proportion. He clothes resembled the outlandish garments of the Haradrim (if slightly more practical than the latter), and her ears were rather like Elf ears with the corners turned down.

Not a Mary-Sue, for obvious reasons.

With lighter steps than her frame would suggest, she approached the slumbering hobbit. Pausing by the stone seat, she reached down and ruffled Frodo's hair.

The hobbit did not stir.

Through the thick glass could be heard the soft murmur of Saf's voice as she spoke to the inert figure; though the words were pleasantly indistinct, the tone was clearly one of affection. [Mary-Sues like description. Legolas is sick of it. End explanation.]

Then the lady looked up and addressed Samwise in such accents of sorrow that even the window could not lessen their intensity.

"Has he taken food?"

Sam shook his head; though his face showed plainly his sadness of his additional reply, his small voice did not penetrate the glass.

"Oh, _Elbereth," interjected Saf. She looked directly at the window, but Legolas noted that her cobalt eyes were vacant and unseeing; something in those empty eyes echoed the pain in Frodo's face._

Silently, Tiny pulled the cord, and the curtain dropped, leaving Legolas to stare at the fibers of muslin.

"She loves him," Tiny said softly. "Oh, I wouldn't be her for all the _mithril in Moria." The agent swiftly cheered again. "She loves them both, really. That's where her name comes from: S-A-F, Sam-and-Frodo. Isn't that awfully clever? They call me 'Tiny' because I am and because nobody else in either world can pronounce 'Tinusell' the way I like it." [She speaks truly.] "Well, maybe __you can. You might learn after you've been here a week or so."_

"Wait – _wait. How long must I stay at..." He hesitated before letting the words roll off his tongue. "...Amon Yána?"_

Tiny suddenly looked uncomfortable.

"Well, see, it's like this: you can stay here and help us..."

"...Or?"

"...Or you can go back to Middle-earth and become fodder for whatever Sues are left."

Legolas paled.

"I think I shall stay here," he said. "Since you need me."

"Splendid! You won't regret it."

[She lies.]

***

**NOTE:** This is a note.

**REAL**** NOTE:** Please review. Most of the next chapter is already written, but I fear my attention is flagging...

Anyway, God bless us, every one, and beware the celery stalks at midnight. ~SoF


End file.
